I am really, really, really sorry about how long it's been since I updated. I've just been really busy lately and, not much time for writing and...erm...I'll just slink away quietly, shall I? Sorry...

Chapter Fifteen

The pale moon gleamed with an almost Elvish-silver in the ebony sky. Below, the White City glowed with a ghostly reflection. Its heavy marble towers appeared almost ethereal in the faint light. Far above, Arwen's sharp eyes could make out the sparkling diamond that was her daeradar's ship, ever sailing the seas of air.

The queen stared up at the skies through a thin opening in the drapes that had been pulled to close off the royal bedchambers from all sight or sound of Gondor. No unfriendly eye could see the secret contained within the rooms, somehow empty without the king's presence—but of course, none other knew that the king was not contained within. Arwen's fair brow was furrowed slightly as if the now-mortal Elf was troubled with a vague sense of something wrong that all her foresight could not pin down. Her eyes scanned the stars for answers, but she did not expect to find any there—nor anywhere else—but still she could not help but seek, just in case.

A faint sound behind disturbed her reverie and she turned, smiling softly at the groggy figure as Beregond stirred.

"Hush," the Elf-queen whispered when the man would have spoken. He blinked owlishly, looking around the marble bedchamber in confusion. This was not the Halls of Healing and Arwen was certainly not one of the attendants that served there. He stayed silent as his queen had commanded, but he wrestled with restrained questions.

Arwen smiled reassuringly and drew the heavy drapes closed once more. She glided silently to the bandage-wrapped man and placed a cool hand on his forehead. "Your fever is all but gone, valiant Beregond," she spoke quietly, her voice a low and soothing murmur that did nothing to answer the man's questions. The Elf-queen lifted a small bowl of athelas-steeped water, cool now but still smelling potently of the refreshing herb, and sat gracefully in a carved chair next to the wide bed. She lifted a soft cloth from the water and began to gently bathe the man's face.

"My lady," he tried to protest; the queen's hands should not be used for such a task. Arwen sent him an imperious look, one carrying all the authority that flowed through her family but which she so rarely used herself. With a single slim eyebrow she reminded the soldier that while she was indeed Queen of Gondor she was a Healer's daughter first and foremost, and—for that matter—she was Queen of Gondor. She would do as she would, and right now what she would was heal. Beregond subsided meekly, although it was clear that he was uncomfortable being cared for by a person of such nobility as the Queen Evenstar.

"My lady, I beg you—" he burst out at last, unable to restrain his curiosity.

Arwen smiled. "Hush, Beregond. Lie still and I shall seek to answer what questions that I may to put your mind at ease. Now, peace." Obeying her command, the soldier lay back upon the pillows as calmly as he could but in his eyes worry danced wildly hand and hand with confusion.

"You have been resting since you first were brought in near death by my brothers. Upon learning what you had to tell, my lord set out with Elladan and two Rangers of the Dúnedain to ride to Prince Faramir's assistance." Arwen discreetly decided it was best not to mention to the devoted Beregond that the wife of his dear captain might also be in danger, along with Legolas and Gimli, and that Aragorn had gone as much to stop those three as he had to learn Faramir's fate and decide how best to save him. That news could wait until the man was faring better, and until Elrohir was in the room to help prevent him from attempting to throw himself from the bed and ride to their aid. Arwen was quite capable of restraining the wounded man on her own, but the proper soldier would be horrified if, in his distress, he committed such a devastating breach of manners as to force the queen to exert physical strength upon his person to stop him. Much better for her to sit back and let her brother handle that; being a warrior as Bergond was, even though he was an Elf of the royal family, Elrohir could do so without causing the man undue embarrassment.

Beregond relaxed slightly to know that help was riding to his captain, although he seemed much grieved that he would not be among that number. Then he seemed to realize where he was and questioning eyes sought Arwen's kindly grey ones. The Elf smiled at him. "Ay, you do indeed lie in the king's bedchambers, noble Beregond. We did judge that 'twas best to keep news of my lord's journey a secret, and so we say that he is ill and care for you in his stead." Although she attempted to hide it, Arwen could tell that the distaste with the dissembling was visible upon her face and she turned away, ostensibly to replace the bowl of athelas-water upon a side table. When she looked back she had composed herself once more.

Beregond's eyelids were flickering as he fought to keep them open. "Sleep, Beregond," Arwen murmured, placing a soothing hand on the man's warm and bandaged brow. "Your duty has been done, valiant one; there is no need to fear." Giving in to both the hypnotic power of the Elf's soft voice and to the dark throbbing in his own head, the soldier drifted slowly back into a deep slumber.

Arwen sat back with a sigh, her own mask of calm slipping back into worry. She had told Beregond that there was no reason to fear, but the Elf-woman was afraid that she had not spoken truly. She could not say what bothered her, but she knew it was something, a faint shadow tickling at the edge of her awareness—

And, she feared, waiting to sweep down and cover them all in darkness.

Arwen shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. The spring night was not cold, yet Gondor's queen felt chilled all the same.

…………

It had been an exceptionally risky series of spurts and pauses, but eventually the companions managed to find their way unobserved to the citadel-like structure Legolas had noticed from the rooftops. It was not large enough to be a citadel, truly, but it seemed to think that it was one. Taller than any other building in Ostad, even if only by a few feet in one or two cases, it seemed nonetheless shrunken. Once it must have been a truly impressive sight, but now it had fallen into decay along with the city it had once stood watch over. While buildings had crept closer to it, both in position and grandeur, it had remained static, slowly aging. Once-white marble was stained and dusty and crumbling where there had formerly been finely carved ornamentation. The reliefs were weather worn and seemed to be slowly melting back into the walls from whence they had sprung. Iron bars and railings were rusty and, in a few places, broken. Bright paint had been aged away, now clinging in a few tattered and faded flecks to doorways and windowsills where the rain did not fall so freely nor the wind blow so hard. There were quite a few gates ringing the once-white bottom of the building, but most of them were either locked or rusted shut. Now, attempting to flit from shadow to shadow out of the circles of torchlight that followed the few patrolling guards that had not been sent to search the city for the intruders, the companions sought a suitable ingress.

Gimli looked upon the tall structure and scoffed. It was nowhere near as elegant a stonework as the lesser buildings of Minas Tirith, and to the eyes of a Dwarf it was shoddy indeed. He could—although never would Gimli have admitted it of anything in this cursed city—see a few finer points in the workmanship, but they too were faded with time and beginning to falter. He sent the so-called citadel a baleful glare and sniffed disdainfully.

Éowyn looked upon the defensively built, strong building and grimaced slightly. Less open to the air even than the lower levels of Minas Tirith, it seemed to the Horse Woman to be a heavy and confining prison. Thick walls with heavy gates and few windows were what met her eyes, and used to the open plains of Rohan or even the freshly built Emyn Arnen, Éowyn could see nothing but constraint and stifling enclosure. It was an old and decaying prison to her eyes, and a small part of her soul longed for the open grasses of her distant birthland.

Mallor looked upon the ancient citadel and frowned. It seemed to have been made in a mockery of Minas Tirith, and while the Dúnadan was from the open forests of the North his home now was in Gondor where, indeed, the hearts of all the Dúnedain had long dwelt in longing. The insolent structure looked to be a poor attempt at competing with the grandeur of his beloved White City, and the Ranger scowled darkly at the farce in front of him.

Aragorn looked upon the pale, faded structure and felt a strange sadness. Here was what Minas Tirith might have fallen to: ruin and despair. This once proud building, though never as proud as those of Gondor, was decaying helplessly, a victim of time. They were all, the king knew, eventually going to be victims of time, just like this fading citadel. Eventually all would crumble, even Gondor. The White City would grow old and dusty, fading into memory and myth. A sudden tiredness seized Aragorn's limbs and he felt cold. It was no foresight that spoke to him; only grim and undeniable knowledge that all things must pass. Nothing achieved by Man could stand forever, no more than this tower could—not even Gondor. The king's face grew grim and he rubbed absently at the ache in his shoulder that seemed to mirror the ache in his soul.

Legolas looked at the tall building and shook his head to clear it of the dust of the city that seemed to be clouding both thought and eyes. Blinking the building back into focus, he quickly scanned it with the sharp eyes of an Elf as he surreptitiously wiped his hand on the hem of his tunic, trying to dry it of the blood that would not seem to go away—the blood from innocent Men he had slain for following orders. The Elf grimaced and banished such thoughts to the cobwebs that this dusty, claustrophobic city wove around his thoughts and forced his attention to the structure in front of him. He picked out the minutest cracks even in the dim light of growing night flickered with faint torches. He examined the fading reliefs as they cast soft-edged shadows that sunk weakly against the walls that were slowly claiming them again. Looking up, he spied a high window whose shutters had not latched properly due to a fragment of drape caught between them. From the weather-beaten look of the cloth, it had been there for some time. It was unlikely, the Elf reasoned, that anyone would be coming to the window to fix the lapse any time soon save by some strange happenstance. While Legolas did not like relying on luck, he knew that hoping this luck would hold was the best chance of entry they were likely to find.

"There," he whispered, pointing. The others strained their eyes but mortal sight could not make out what he indicated in the darkness that was slowly stealing the world from them.

"What is it?" Aragorn hissed back.

"A window that is not latched properly," the Elf explained quietly. "It would serve as a suitable entry point, I suspect."

"My lord," Mallor whispered apologetically, "we are but mortal. We could not make such a climb."

"I know," Legolas returned quietly. "Yet if I could access the building, I could sneak back and unlock one of the doors for you. Or at the least find a rope of some sort I could toss down."

Aragorn shook his head. "Too risky," the Ranger breathed firmly.

A familiar stubborn set appeared in Legolas's jaw and his eyes sparkled with determination as he prepared to argue the point. Aragorn shook his head again. "I said it is too risky!" he hissed. "Even if you make it in undetected, none of us know the layout of the interior. You are more than likely to become lost and be unable to find your way to a door, and then there is the added problems of requiring a means to open the door and of not being seen."

"I do not see a better option!" the Elf protested in a stubborn whisper.

"Be patient, my lord," Éowyn counseled soothingly. "There must be one." She looked at Aragorn expectantly and he racked his brains while his own sight—sharper than that of other Men—searched the dim structure for that better option of which she spoke. He knew that if he did not find one soon, not only were they likely to be discovered, Legolas was likely to simply scale the wall and be done with it. Aragorn well recognized that stubborn look; it was almost the spitting image of Thranduil that now stood before him rather impatiently.

Aragorn sighed with exasperation and wandered idly why Gimli had not done as usual and distracted the Elf—then he stiffened and looked around. For the Dwarf to remain silent in a discussion of this sort—especially one that involved Legolas—was strange enough that Aragorn felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Where was Gimli?

With mounting alarm, the Man spun around, searching the shadows for his shorter comrade. He looked back at the others—who were regarding him with confusion—just in time to see the Dwarf ambling back towards them with a satisfied smile on his face. When he caught sight of Legolas, Gimli's smile became more like a smirk with no small hint of smugness to it. Rather than relaxing now that the Dwarf was found, Aragorn found himself tensing even more. What had Gimli been up to that would cause him to grin so smugly at the Elf, and what sort of inevitable discussion was it sure to engender?

"When you four are done standing around," the Dwarf rumbled, voice carefully pitched low so that it would not carry in the still night, "perhaps you would like to enter this ill-named citadel 'ere we are discovered?"

"Once we come to an agreement on how to do just that, which you would know we are currently discussing if your Dwarvish mind could keep up with the conversation of fleeter-thinking folk, we shall do just that, Master Dwarf," Legolas whispered haughtily.

Gimli's grin grew wider and Aragorn groaned silently in anticipation. "If Elves could keep up with the thoughts of Dwarves, perhaps you would know that there is no need to discuss it further, for I have already secured us an entrance while you sat about idly chatting, Master Elf," the Dwarf retorted smugly.

Aragorn restrained a sigh. "What did you do?" he asked quietly, hoping that the answer would not involve a certain axe and few certain skulls.

Gimli quirked an eyebrow at the king, as if chiding him for such foolish thoughts. "The locks were rusty," he said with a shrug that attempted to be nonchalant although he could not resist grinning slyly at the Elf. "I simply sped up the process of oxidation a bit with a few well-placed chips with a sharp stone."

"Well," said Aragorn neutrally, "it seems that you were right, my lady. A better option has indeed presented itself."

"Indeed," said Éowyn dryly. She looked at Legolas and raised an eyebrow. The Elf looked away, perhaps blushing although it was too dark to tell, but said nothing as Aragorn forced himself to resist the urge to snicker.

"Come," Aragorn said after a moment to compose himself, "let us use this entrance that good Master Gimli here has provided us with before the opportunity slips past us." He turned to follow the Dwarf, then paused. "And if you two would restrain your discussion until we are safely within and out of earshot of the guards, my nerves would be exceptionally appreciative," he said with a stern glance at both Elf and Dwarf. He was rewarded with identical looks of innocent surprise and, with a sigh, he gave up and trusted that the Valar would see to the two of them; they were the only ones with the power to get them to keep quiet he well knew.

Well, Aragorn amended thoughtfully, Thranduil could accomplish it for a moment or two when he tried his hardest.

And Arwen could usually secure a few minutes of peace when she put her mind to it.

Ah, how he missed Galadriel…

……………

Mallor wedged the heavy door shut behind them, careful to keep its old hinges from shrieking. Gimli crept down the dark hallway, somehow silent on the stone floor that ought to have, by all rights, rang under the Dwarf's heavy boots. But then, Dwarves were strange creatures about which Mallor knew little; perhaps it was true that they came from stone themselves, and it was so artful in their hands because they were distant kin. The Ranger had never put much stock in such rumors, but now, after spending some short time in Gimli's company, he could see easily how they might come to be started. The short creature seemed as strong as stone himself, and as unlikely to be affected by the acts of Men. Perhaps the Dwarf had asked the stone to be silent, and it had agreed.

With a small, wry grin, Mallor shook such idle fancies from his mind and turned his thoughts to their current situation. They no longer risked being spotted from the guards currently combing the city, but they were far from safe. Indeed, unless they found somewhere in which to secret themselves away soon, he did not doubt but that they would be discovered before long. For all that this corridor was dusty and unlit, the citadel was far from abandoned. One wrong turn would land them in even more trouble than before.

They would have to count on the Dwarf's affinity for stone and the Elf's sharp ears—and, of course, on King Aragorn. Mallor idolized his liege; he knew Aragorn was not infallible, but he was, in the Ranger's eyes, as close as was mortally (or even immortally, he ought to say, now that he was around Elves) possible. Lord Aragorn Elessar Telcontar was the Hope of Men, and Mallor trusted to hope with all his heart. He had followed Aragorn on the Paths of the Dead and fought for him on the Pelannor Fields and before the Morannon itself.

He would follow him through this shabby city and it's crumbling citadel with no thought of hesitation.

If only the same could be said for Aragorn. The king did not like being caught off guard, he did not like being caught in ignorance, yet suddenly he was both. He knew little about the people of Ostad, and less about the layout of their city itself. He had traveled farther in his lifetime than most Men dream, yet he had never come here. Never before had he set foot in this citadel, or even within the city walls. He did not know where he was nor where to go. He was being hunted and he did not understand the hunters.

It did not sit well with him. Not at all.

Aragorn looked upon the dark hall with grim grey eyes and his face was stern. His was a presence of nobility that could command by word alone; he needed no authority but that which he carried with him. Yet here that would do little good; the people of Ostad were unlikely to be commanded by the King of Gondor, for all that he was ostensibly their overlord.

That, too, did not sit well with Aragorn.

They had spread rumor and whisper through Gondor, seeking to weaken it from within. They had cut off ties and flouted authority. And now they had kidnapped—and injured—his people and his friends. Deep grey eyes narrowed to harsh slits.

There would indeed be a reckoning, Aragorn swore to himself silently. And what a reckoning it would be.

Now he simply had to see to it that they all survived long enough for that to come to pass.